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All that clings to slabs of lichen-covered rock Are tangled briars and wind-burnt bushes. While for an hour in the year’s day timid flowers In crevices hold their heads to unfamiliar light. The speech of those whose names we bear Is underground. Their words drip through layers, Run down rock and leak into caves. Those who held sway over the land are gone With the ash of their fires washed into the ground. Gift of their speech or stealth of ours? It is we who greeted this. Our words no longer give comfort At death or help the young trying to say What one can only feel. Or give a voice to What makes this country different and our own. Then only see the loss when it is beyond recall. |
